Breath
by Valbonne
Summary: A one-shot centred on the Hetalia Nordics, primarily Sweden. Sweden enters an old summerhouse they shared together, and the experience begins to unearth old memories of when they spent time together as a family.


watch?v=b5KkhVwW-8I

It was quiet in the house. It had been hushed for a long while. The silence shattered the noise of the past, and the air seemed to hold its breath.

The house was devoid of life, dark and cold and lonely. It smelt of emptiness, of hardship, of sorrow.

Years had passed since Berwald had last entered the house. Not since the last summer together had he dared return. The home had become dusty and haggard in the time passed, as if it were waiting in vain. Gathering dust, when so many other houses had perhaps turned to ashes somewhere else in the kingdom.

"Hallå…?" the deep voice called out, with a slightly hoarse edge. The Swede only spoke sparingly, as he always had.

He couldn't expect an answer from an empty house, and the sound ricocheted off the barren walls as if to taunt the man. Echoes and airwaves were all he would hear, save for his own breathing and footfalls. He stepped in a bit further, and allowed the dilapidated door to creak on its hinges as he delved into the gloom. His fingers fumbled for the light switch, but the bulbs had long burnt out, and the darkness perched atop his shoulders like a Cheshire cat.

Had he imagined anything different, he would have been severely disappointed. An abandoned house, neither destroyed nor preserved, stood before him. Its murk welcomed him, its wordlessness beckoned to him. He was its only visitor, and most likely its last. His hand traced over the worn wooden chest in the front hallway, and his fingers left ghost-like streaks in the coating of dust. The ghosts whispered that someone had been here, after all.

And here was the living room, where he had sat so often with his brothers and his children. The television set was still there, reminding him of how he used to lecture the boys on watching too much TV. The sofa and coffee table still rested in front of the TV, ready as always for another movie night. A fine lace of cobwebs covered the surface of the couch, proof that not a soul had sat on the furniture for a long time. Not even the faintest circular mark remained in the thick sheet of dust upon the table, and he knew that there had been no time for fika.

His boots left imprints, soft but firm, in the slippery layers of time that dusted the floorboards toward the kitchen. Shadows tossed themselves around the small cooking area, and the stove burners were clogged with filth, while neglect hung itself atop the refrigerator and microwave. If one opened the oven, a fine web of powder could be seen inside. But nobody opened the oven, not even the Swede. Instead, he turned to look at a set of mugs that had been forgotten in the basin of the kitchen sink.

One read: "Sverige."

That was his.

Another stated simply: "Norge."

Norway had since departed.

A third was decorated in sprawling cursive: "Danmark."

He hadn't seen the Dane in a long while.

And a fourth was nestled by the other three, its letters barely distinguishable beneath the mask of dust: "Suomi."

Nobody had ever learnt of where Finland had gone.

Iceland had taken his mug with him when he left the house. Something about a gut feeling, he had mumbled. Perhaps it had been a premonition.

Tearing his gaze away from the abandoned coffee mugs, the Swede shuffled out of the kitchen and through the dining room, where the chairs sat patiently around the table. The lamp attached to the ceiling, still suspended above the dining area, spewed yet another string of dust, and Sweden continued.

The staircase was hazardous, each step coated in years of dust that sprung up jauntily when the man's boot landed. The banister was equally white with dust, and odd clumps began to tumble to the ground floor as the Swede moved his hand upward in ascent.

There were six bedrooms upstairs, and a bathroom. The bathroom consisted of a severely neglected tub and shower, as well as a dusty sink and a toilet, of which Sweden was afraid to lift the lid. He slipped back out to the main hallway of the second floor, and began quietly opening each door.

_"Something is going to happen. Don't you sense it, too?"_

The first bedroom to the right was Iceland's. There was hardly much to remember him by, as he had again insisted upon taking what he could with him. That sense of foreboding he had felt. And the room was in silent denial. The Swede shut the door soundlessly, and moved on to the next room.

_"It's time to leave. We don't have time to waste, Ice."_

Norway's quarters were directly to the right of Iceland's. His possessions seemed a bit odd, but the familiarity of them still revived Sweden's memory. The wardrobe door was open, and some Norwegian clothes hung inside. It left a strange impression, to see clothing without its owner. And Sweden headed into the next room, not bothering to close the door to Norway's.

_"We'll keep in touch for sure! Don't worry so much, kiddo!"_

And somehow, if one looked closely, Denmark's smile faltered slightly in the photo on his dresser. He had never bothered to make his bed, and as nobody else had wanted to do it for him, the covers had remained dishevelled throughout the years. The curtains were left open, and as the Swede looked outside, he could see the view that the Dane had loved so dearly. After another minute, he pulled himself away from the window and shuffled toward the other side of the hall, where the last two rooms were.

_"Vi ses."_

The Swede's room was simple, without much décor. He never regretted the lack of furnishings, unlike how he sometimes regretted his sparing speech. If only he had said more, to leave a lasting impression. To make it count. His hand brushed along the white wall, and the paper had yellowed beneath the dust. A roll of fabric lay in the corner of the room, with the colours of the Swedish flag. He had intended to hang it up on the wall someday, but never got the chance. The flag rested peacefully on the floor, and the man walked into the next chamber.

"_We'll have another Midsummer celebration next year, I promise!"_

But Finland's promise was unintentionally broken, like the glass in the picture frame on his wall. It had fallen one year, but he insisted upon keeping it, rather than replacing it. For nostalgic value, he had claimed, and Sweden could still remember. It was peculiar, how such seemingly mundane details could rekindle so much of the past. It seemed brighter now, the images of that summer burning as bright as a bonfire in the Swede's mind, and he allowed them to carry him into the last room.

_"We'll miss you!"_

Ladonia and Sealand had shared a room, as unhappy as they had been every year about it. They bickered and brawled, and quarreled as siblings often do. Ladonia would be sketching a landscape when Sealand would sneak up on him, and the surprise attack would result in an angry scribble of ink across the page. The boys would come running to Sweden, and he would have to lecture them.

History began to dig itself out from the rubbles of the past, and Sweden went to stand at the balcony, looking down at the first floor.

The first rays of the next dawn had already begun to dance shyly across the floor, through the windows. The faint light lent a foreign sense of intrusion as it crept upward, toward the top of the stairwell, and the Swede began his descent.

Each step was a memory, each step a solemn truth.

The early sunbeams caught the hanging trails of dust in a flattering light, and there was something ethereal to this house of dust.

He couldn't quite place it, but it almost felt alive.

It felt like home.

And the air released its long-held breath.

* * *

A somewhat melancholy one-shot, but I'd like to think the ending was a happy one. I have no intentions of continuing it, but if anyone wants me to, I can consider writing a sort of related story, and elaborate on a prequel...?

I'm known for never finishing the stories I start, so that might explain my one-shots. Feel free to message me-any sort of inspiration or critique is appreciated, within reason :)


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